Reprinted from 
The Bowling Green and The Sun Dial. 







jj fcmtetlt&Uife Ailing jj 






Copyright, 1920, by Kenneth Slade Ailing 
All rights reserved. 



Published September 1920 



©C1A593537 

btf -b Ib20 



For K. C. 

For whom this book is made 

I will make a song for you, 
One of April's fled and gone, 

Unimaginably blue 
1 will paint the dawn. 

For the dawn is always sweet, 

Promises are ever fair 
And the touch of April's feet, 

Eunning silver on the air. 

Light as April's rapturous laughter 
When the wondering earth is glad, 

Though with blossoms dying after 
All the winds are sad, 

I will make this song for you, 
Spun and woven of old words, 

With a strain of music too, 
From the earliest birds. 

April comes, but April goes, 
Time has carried her away, 

This torn fragment of her clothes, 
Take from me to-day. 



Spring and Summer 

I shouted to green things growing, 

Across the garden ways, 
And in my voice there echoed, 

A thousand Mays. 

And the green things grew so swiftly, 

To hear the singing tune, 
That when I turned to shout again, 

My voice was the voice of June. 



Daffodils 

In early spring the daffodils 

Come out across the way, 
A thousand golden candles 

To light the feet of May. 

But May arrives with flaunting robes, 
And blows the candles out — 

I sometimes wonder if our friend 
Knows what she is about. 



The Rain 

Running on silver feet, the rain 
Hurries across the sea, 
And dances on the dusty plain, 
An April ecstasy. 

The wind has fetched his violin, 
The thunder brings a drum; 
Theleaves, delighted, clap their hands, 
To see the dancer come. 



White Ships 

(For K. C) 

Upon the air's unrippled blue, 

White ships that run, are bringing 

Laughter and pearls for me and you; 
This is a day for singing. 

The boats that breast the stubborn sea 
Could never glide as gladly 

As these, with bales for you and me, 
Or cheer our hearts so madly. 



A Presence 

When the departing, great sun stands 
And plants, on the last hill, his feet, 

He comes; likewise to morning lands, 
Or down a dim and crowded street. 

Today I knew that ecstasy; 

A soaring light was all my blood. 
And, in me, voices, like the sea, 

Shouted and my heart understood. 

To-day He smote earth with the flame, 
That clothes His presence when He comes 
And earth grew vibrant with His name, 
Like hidden trumpets, answering drums. 



To All Little Children 

You are the single, sole excuse 

The world possesses for existing; 

But life will find you griefs to use 

And you will make and keep strange trysting. 

Be merry now, the sun is shining 
And earth is a new fairy place, 
For tireless weavers are designing 
Garments to hide your innocent grace. 

Be merry now, and run and laugh, 
Because the earliest day you wear 
These garments, that same day will dare 
To write your childhood's epitaph. 



St. Bartholomew's 

I have fled from the world and entered here: 

Peace, that this place does like a vestment wear, 

Subdues the ancient agony, and prayer, 

Communion, and the hands of God are near. 

Within the sacred sanctuary fear 

Comes not, but love along the hallowed air 

Walks quietly and he beckons me to share 

The sound of choirs that only to his ear 

Is audible; but such his kindness and 

His power that now ( Love takes me by the hand) 

Suddenly and stupendously I know 

The noise of silver strings and golden wires, 

The unimaginable music of the choirs, 

That sing beside the street where angels go. 



To- 

I cannot write of paradise, 
Though I have travelled there 

And known the ambient perfume 
Of that ecstatic air. 

How should I write of paradise 
And who would understand - 

Save you, who, bringing my feet wings, 
Led me through starry land. 



Epitaph 

Come jest a while with me and talk 

And talk awhile and laugh; 
Some day the one of us may write 

The other's epitaph. 

And if your hand shall write for me, 
Then let the words you write 

Say that I love them equally, 
Blue day and starry night. 

Say I loved talking things like birds 
And prattling things like brooks, 

And that I learned from children's words 
And fell in love with books. 

And say I loved a girl or two, 
And one with hair like flame, 

And flame my heart was when she spoke 
By night my name. 



Beauty 

Preferring beauty to the warmth of blood, 

He will love marble and the moon bright girls, 

Diana, who once only understood 

The ways of love; when through Endymion's curls 

She twined queen's fingers (as a wood stream wreathes) 

Cool fingers through the forest's wind-blown hair). 

Oh, marble so inaudibly breathes, 

What can he find in marble that is fair? 

Beauty I seek but more I seek the fire, 

That lives in hearts where oft no beauty is. 

No beauty? There is no beauty without desire, 

Which is all beauty. Let me never kiss 

Cold marble; and when my flaming days are done, 

I would go back unto my home, the sun. 



On the Passing of the Last Fire Horse From 
Manhattan Island 

I remember the cleared streets, the strange suspense, 
As if a thunderstorm were under way; 
Magnificently furious, hurrying thence, 
The fire-eyed horses racing to the fray; 
Out of old Homer where the heroes are, 
Beating upon the whirlwind thunderous hoofs, 
Wild horses and plumed Ajax in his car: 
Oh, in those days we still possessed the proofs 
Men battled shouting by the gates of Troy, 
With shields of triple brass and spears of flame. 
With what distended nostrils, what fierce joy, 
What ring on stone and steel, those horses came. 
Like horses of gods that whirl to the dawn's burning, 
They came, and they are gone, and unreturning. 



3477-1 83 
Lot 74 











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